Chicago  changes like all cities.  What was once a parking lot turns into a department store overnight. A diner  becomes a Starbucks or Chipotle while old trains rattle above,  making it hard to sleep in summer’s heat with windows open and bedbugs biting.

He lived above a hotdog stand on  South Halsted. The smell of Polish sausages and grilled onions filled his nose; tastebuds danced. But, it was the Chicago dog that truly  aroused him. Long dill pickle, raw onions,  tomatoes, slathered in mustard and neon green relish with a touch of celery salt touching his thin lips made him  crazy with pleasure after a night of drinking. Thanking God for the 24-hour stand as he walked to Windy City Labor every day. For five bucks with a sleeve of fries. One could not ask for more. 

The old man stood in line  as the sun came up waiting to go  inside the hall and wait for a work ticket. An old fat Irish man with a tall skinny black dude named Cookie sat behind the cage, calling out names and giving assignments. White men got the best jobs, the ones that paid most, while blacks took low paying gigs across town.

Cookie laughed at his fellow brothers. Saying things like, it sucks to be you, nigger to the darker skinned while the ones with lighter skin were almost treated white.  All were hungover or addicted to something worse;  the daily paycheck spent within hours on booze, crack, smack, or weed. Something to get them through this life.

It was a far cry from the farm.But he never longed to go home. Never thought of going back to his wife and family. William believed in drunken spirituality. Thought the bottle would lead him. And it did.